


Demons

by yeaka



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:30:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3783397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years later, Simon still wants George.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demons

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is mildly AU, since I’m advancing Simon to 18 and who knows what the George/Edna and work status will be like by then... (I mean, I hope the show continues long enough for us to see, but in the meantime, here’s this~)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Murdoch Mysteries or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He can’t sleep, because he knows if he waits up long enough, George will come home. 

There’s no clock in Simon’s room. He doesn’t know exactly when he hears the creak of the front door in the distance, but it’s late enough that the street outside is silent and Simon’s sure his mother’s fast asleep. She deserves it. Even with all of George’s salary, she has to work too hard—they have three mouths to feed and a broken down house to attend and the debts of Simon’s father. It almost makes him reconsider climbing out of bed and walking to the door. _Almost_.

Simon’s used to feeling terrible. He’s used to being bad, doing bad things. Even when he _tries_ to be good, it never lasts. He was born into a broken system with no good tools, and he knows that there’s no _right_ way for a man like him to be happy. He’s a man now. The word sometimes feels strange on his tongue, even though he’s been a ‘young man’ for ages, and he’s been old enough to work for too long. He had to wait anyway. If he was any younger, George wouldn’t understand. 

He opens the door to his room, only to find George on the other side, still done up in his constable outfit—it looks better on him than the brief time he spent as a detective, Simon thinks. George blinks at Simon in surprise, his youthful face taking on a cute confusion, and then he smiles sheepishly and steps inside. Simon moves out of the way to let him. 

George looks like _he’s_ the one that’s _wrong_ , even as Simon shuts the door to seal George inside. He walks a few paces to reach George, and George mumbles quietly, as though anything louder will wake the whole house, “I’m sorry, Simon. I truly am. But there was a case—”

“It’s okay,” Simon says, because it is. His father never cared much for his birthdays. He knows George _cares_ , but keeping the city safe is more important than one family’s dinner. “I understand.”

George smiles with sad eyes. He looks fond, proud. George always thinks Simon’s better than he is. He’ll probably never know how much Simon fantasizes about being _bad_ , turning back to the life of a criminal just to have George chase him down, pin him to the earth in that crisp black uniform, pull his hands behind his back and cuff him together. Every time he gets a glimpse of George wielding handcuffs, he wants to hold out his wrists and beg to be clamped together; what he wouldn’t give to be behind bars in George’s cell, to have George pace before him and hold that power over him, control his fate, slip inside to give him one last little lecture of how he needs to be a _good boy_ , maybe followed by a stern, hard spanking...

George steps into the fantasies, promising, “I’ll give you your present tomorrow, alright?”

Not alright. Simon’s already chewing on his lip, and he shakes his head to say, “I want it now.”

“Well... Simon, I haven’t got it now,” George says awkwardly, as though he’d really give it over if he did. Simon shakes his head again. 

“No, I... I want something else. Specific.”

George’s eyebrows knit together. He gets confused so easily and always looks so adorable when he does. “It’s the middle of the night. What could I possibly get you now?” Trust George Crabtree to never see what’s right in front of him. 

Simon reaches for George’s hand, slipping easily into it. George looks down at it but doesn’t pull away. 

Simon doesn’t even have to lift up on his toes. When he was younger and used to daydream of this, he always thought he’d have to struggle to reach. But he’s grown over the years, and he’s almost the same height as George, maybe only a hair or two shorter. He’s a little smaller, trim but no longer gangly. George is so trusting and stands so close. It’s easy to tilt and lean that little bit extra forward, brushing their lips together. For a fraction of a second, Simon has everything he’s wanted for _so long_.

But then George jerks back, startled, his hand still trapped in Simon’s. Eyes wide and round, he asks urgently, “Simon—” there it is again; every time he says Simon’s name in his thick Newfoundland accent, it makes Simon _fall for him_ all over again, “What are you doing?”

Even though Simon prepared all the arguments, they seem to fall away under George’s innocent shock, and he only shrugs and says, “It’s okay. I’m older now. I mean, I think I always knew I wanted you, but... now I’m old enough to tell you.”

At first, George just continues gaping. He asks, “Me?” Like _that’s_ the shocking part. Simon nods. 

But it’s more than just age, so he explains, sounding calmer than he feels, “I’ve seen the way you look at Henry and Detective Murdoch. I’m not judging you, I just... I’m that way, too. And I want you to think of me as an option.”

“An option,” George repeats hoarsely, like he can’t believe it. Some of the colour’s drained out of his face. The candle on Simon’s nightstand doesn’t provide enough light, but George is expressive enough to shine through any darkness. 

“And I know you love my mother,” Simon goes on, because he does know that and it’s true, and it should stop him but doesn’t, can’t. “...But why can’t you have me, too?” She never has to know. Or maybe if she did, she’d understand. How could anyone not fall in love with George, all his charm, all his warmth, all his kindness? His cleverness and even his wild theories. He’s always been able to make Simon smile, and that’s no small feat. George is looking at him, then away, completely lost. 

He manages, nearly spluttering, “That’s ridiculous. Even if you’re old enough for that... that sort of thing, not with men, and _I’m_ too old for you.”

Simon says easily, “I don’t care.” George opens his mouth like he’s going to protest again. 

Simon lunges forward to press their mouths together. This time it’s harder, more pressure; Simon can _feel_ the soft, smooth expanse of George’s lips, and George doesn’t pull away so soon. He lingers, and Simon can feel the struggle in him. Simon’s eyes are closed, his weight looming forward into George’s stronger embrace, until George’s hands are on his biceps, gently pushing him away. Simon lets their lips disconnect, be he doesn’t go far. 

George murmurs, “ _Simon_ ,” like a quiet plea. His eyes are hazy. He licks his lips, and Simon wonders if George can taste _him_ there. Slowly, George starts, “your mother...”

“She wouldn’t mind you taking care of me.” George snorts in a broken laugh, but Simon insists, “Better you than some other man I pick up in a bar or an alley. That’s all men like us can get.” _Like us_. Maybe George isn’t quite the same, but it’s already slipped out, and George hasn’t denied his attraction. He’s a little flushed from the kiss—maybe he could be interested. He’s just looking for excuses.

“I watched you grow up...” He sounds broken.

Simon says quietly, “You’re not my dad, George. You were never even close. When you came to us, I was already making money for my mother.” George looks away. Simon follows him, murmuring, “George, I _love_ you. At first... sometimes I thought I’d grow out of it. But it’s lasted so many years, and I only love you more and more. I mean, if you don’t want me _at all_ , that’s one thing, but... at least think about me...”

George looks back at him. Simon goes in for one last too-desperate kiss, throwing himself hard against George’s body, trying to _will_ George to love him. 

And George, finally, kisses him _back._

Both of Simon’s hands lift to cup George’s face, holding them together, and George pushes at him so insistently that Simon stumbles a step back, dragging George with him. His shoulders hit the wall, and one arm slithers around George’s neck, fingers slipping through George’s dark hair, flattened by the uniform hat he’s probably left downstairs. George lifts a tentative hand to Simon’s face, brushing back blond strands. The kiss is a little messy, wet and unsure, but it’s passionate under that, in a clumsy, needy sort of way. If Simon had the courage, he’d thrust his leg between George’s thighs and try to drag him to bed. But he wants George too much, and he’ll go slowly if he has to. 

When they part next, it’s mutual; they’re both breathing too hard. George leans his forehead against Simon’s, heavy and hot. Simon breathes, “I know you care about me.”

George sighs. “Well, of _course_ I do. But I... I never thought about you like this.”

“I know. You’re a good man, George.” A better man than Simon will ever be. Better than he deserves. And here he is trying to drag that good man down to hell with them. Maybe there’s some way they could work out, somehow. Maybe his mother could forgive them, maybe even understand. That’s the only other person Simon really cares about. He says, “But you have the option now. I wanted you to know that.”

George’s nose wrinkles, eyes closing. He looks _ashamed_. He whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“This is wrong.”

“Men like us are always wrong,” Simon explains, like it’s nothing. “That’s just the hand we’ve been dealt.”

A small smile tugs at George’s lips. It makes him look particularly handsome. “You’re too young to say things like that.”

“I’m not so young anymore.”

George shakes his head. To him, maybe Simon will always be a child. Simon might not be that far off in years, but he hasn’t felt _childlike_ in ages, since before his father left and he was too young to know what poverty and sinful urges were. His arms are still around George, but he lowers them so that he’s only clinging on to the front of George’s uniform, and George could pull away if he wanted to. Even though Simon just wants to hold him tight, and maybe never let go. 

George sighs, “I have to think.” Of course he does. It’s more than Simon hoped for, and he can feel his heart clenching at the thought that they might get to kiss again. Someday. Even if it never gets past that, he could be happy. 

George brushes the yellow hair away from his forehead and leans up to kiss him there, a soft but lingering gesture. Simon’s eyes fall closed all the same. George murmurs, “Goodnight, Simon.” The conversation’s over. 

Simon says, “Goodnight, George.” His version sounds hollow. It physically _hurts_ when George steps away from him, leaving him alone. But he knew George would be too pure to stay. Knowing doesn’t help. 

George opens his door. Gives him one last smile, then leaves. The door clicks shut again. He’s probably off to lie with Simon’s mother, kiss her sleeping cheek and wonder why he’d ever risk his life with such an angel. And Simon can’t quite blame him. 

Simon wants to follow. He wants to join them, wrap his arms around George like the child he’s been accused of. They’ve always been a broken home, anyway. 

But he tries to be _good_ for George, so he goes to his bed alone. 

He slips below the covers and holds off touching himself for as long as he can. When he comes, George’s name is on his lips, just like it always is, George’s face behind his eyes. He adds the scent of George’s cologne and the feeling of George’s mouth to the fantasy. He lies still afterwards, replaying everything.

When the morning comes, George still smiles at him, and Simon’s heart explodes.


End file.
